There was no plan.
Our hero and her poet had already mastered the art of “not having a plan” other than “what time are you planning to be here?”
Two cups of flour with herbs, sugar, olive oil and yeast were in a bowl. It had been slowly kneeded into a ball.
The olive oil was drizzled carefully across the dough and set aside.
It struck the poet while our hero glided through her kitchen just how beautifully simple and simply beautiful she was that morning.
A random stream of words floated through his head while she pulled an assortment of vegetables out of her refrigerator.
“Here is a feeling that I’ve only dreamed of,
You gliding barefoot on pool deck pavement.
Something soothing and everlasting.
You slide near and my heart beats faster.”
She broke his thoughts with a motherly warning “That’s a very sharp knife so be careful, please.”
And the next set of ingredients were prepped and stirred and placed in the oven.
The grill was searing and our hero was sipping her wine while the poet watched her drift around her kitchen and into her living room.
He wondered as they sat down to eat if our hero realized he was here, today, feeding her food in a vain attempt to fill her stomach and wet her appetite in return for how she filled his heart and soul.
Maybe she knew.
And if she did not, he did not care. He planned to keep trying to tell her until he finally strung the words together in the right way. He planned to show her until he worked his fingers down the bones.
Why? Because he had waited too long for someone of her worth.